Archive:Reincarnation of the Soul
June 16 | 32 A.D.P. | 1:18 A.M. How does one begin a journal? With a pleasant anecdote or perhaps a witty joke? Does the scribe just begin writing immediately or perhaps take some time to scrutinize the work before him or her? I’ll be straightforward and get to the “meat and beans”, as they say. Today I awoke like every other day: locked in the Stockades. The flickering embers of the torches had landed on my eyelids and forced me to waken from my miserable slumber. It took me awhile before I fully regained my consciousness and was able to stand up. My surroundings were all too recognizable - a shoddy cot, a bucket for excreting waste, a minute window, and a series of bars which locked me from the west wing - not quite the most glamorous of homes. For the past two years of my life, this was my warming abode. I approached my cot and laid on it with a disdainful feeling as I heard a rat scurry from underneath the poor excuse of a bed. My eyes fluctuated to my one barred window. This was the only source of true daylight within my predestined crypt. Without it, I would have been oblivious to whether or not the glorious sun was gracing Azeroth; regardless, down in this dungeon, the once-brilliant beams devolved into a single ray of light which managed to barely breach into this bastion of darkness. This luminance was my hope. It allowed me to pray to the Light for better days to come and ultimately for a new life. Little did I know that on that day, June 15, my wish would be granted. “Denevron Holywrought-Rawdes?” Fluttering my eyes open, I sighed and responded to the rather burly guard staring at me from behind the bars. “Holywrought-Rhodes. And yeah, I‘m him.” I could barely catch a glimpse of the guard’s frown from being corrected by a prisoner such as myself. “Quit your bitching, Rhawdes. I’m not in the mood to be dealing with you self-righteous pricks of prisoners. Just one small revolt with the tiniest amount of success and you simpletons think you own this joint!” With a hefty sigh, I reclined in my cot and rested my head against the cold stone wall. The guard continued to complain about the quality of prisoners for several minutes before he finally reached the point. “Some bloke paid your bail. The entirety of it. Pack your things and prepare to leave this place by twelve o’ clock tonight.” My eyes widened at this miracle. At once, the question popped out from me like an involuntary muscle spasm. “Who?” “The man wanted to stay anonymous. I’d watch your back if I were you, prick. It may be someone who wants you dead. Let me correct myself there: I hope it‘s someone who wants you dead.” Someone who wanted me dead? I doubt it. Aside from that one…accident which had been the reason for my institutionalization, I was a respectable man who had little to no enemies. Since the accident, no one wanted to talk to me let alone kill me. Regardless, I nodded in silent contemplation in order to signalize that the message was received. I didn’t have to carry a lot of supplies with me as I was deported from the Stockades. All in all, I had my clothes and one article of jewelry: the signet. Of course it was a pleasurable feeling to leave the Stockades, but I felt as though I was leaving a sheltered part of my life and entering a new chapter in an “eat or die” kind of city. Though the chances were slim for me to ever be granted a bail, I had always imagined the glorious moment by which I would experience when I had bid adieu to the Stockades. The effervescent sunlight would surround me as I would skip along the cobblestones singing a jovial tune. A wholehearted smile would be painted across my countenance during my entire trip to the local tavern for a strong drink. Reality was quite the paradox to my fantasy. Light was only emitted from the housing and even then, I could only spot the dim twinkle of candles. While I was a free man, somehow I still felt as though I was locked in the chains of society. Where was I to go? My mother wasn’t awake at this time of hour - she was quite old and sick, thus making her perpetually lethargic. Instead, I decided that the Cathedral of Light would be a suitable location for me to spend that night. Only once had I betrayed the Light and I was certain the it would forgive me with enough repentance and faith. On my way to the refuge, I spotted a rather admirable storefront. The windows were glazed with a silvery substance, the door was made of a fine teak, and outside were a series of foreign yet superb potted plants. In a glistening golden calligraphy, the sign out front read: “Miles Away Books”. It took me several minutes before I came to the decision to pull the handle of the door to check whether or not the store was open. With a slight shiver of anticipation coursing through my body, I opened the door with very little effort - quite the contrary from the rusty hinges of the Stockades. A stout man who looked aged in his forties greeted me with a bona fide wave of the hand. Though balding, there were two tufts of neatly combed midnight black hair still flourishing on the sides of his scalp. “How do you do? The name is Miles Barnesworthy and welcome to my humble little boutique. I was just about to close up, but what can I help you with?” The question pierced through me like an arrow through parchment. What was I doing here, after all? Perhaps it was just the dazzling decor of the store which alienated it from the rest of what I had been forced to see for the past two years. For a moment I even silently cursed the man for keeping the front of his emporium so neat! At once, I responded in a humble yet rasp tone. “Have any journals. Like empty ones?” Miles nodded as he silently analyzed me from my appearance. A skeptical tone escaped from his lips as he spoke. “One second. You stay down here.” I shrugged off the paranoia which Miles held for me. After all, I’m certain that I looked like Fel. The bi-annual hygienic drills of prison weren’t enough to keep a man looking respectable. My fingers trailed along the spines of several books which were alphabetically organized along the bookcase facing the window. Some of these titles surprised me; however, it was the historical tomes which dazzled me the most. What were half of these events about? The Lich King had finally been thwarted? When did we set off for Northrend to begin with? What in the Light’s name was Ulduar and what is Brann doing there? My mind was flying a mile a minute and my heart was pounding profusely. By the time Miles came downstairs, the poor man had to view me in quite a horrendous state. Sweat was beading down my forehead and I was at the brink of collapsing onto his neatly-polished floor. Feeling the urge to remove me from his store immediately, Miles handed me the beautiful journal and gingerly scooted me from his small business. With one last wave, Miles closed his marvelous door and what followed was the sound of a light click. To be honest, I wasn’t so certain as to why of all things I had asked for an empty journal. Perhaps it was my inner subconscious forcing me to use this book as a symbol of my new life. My fresh slate, per se. I found solace deep within the catacombs of the Cathedral of Light. It didn’t take me too much time to find a suitable location for me to rest and think, but it wasn’t the ideal location for an anchorage; these accommodations wouldn’t be permanent. For now - for tonight, at least, I will write. Tomorrow will be a better day and I will have to begin my life anew whether I like it or not. Chances are I’ll probably wait awhile before visiting my mother due to utter fear that she’ll reject me, but in conclusion, I did all that was possible for tonight. Until the dawn rises, journal. June 17 | 32 A.D.P. | 2:47 A.M. Sleep is something which people take for granted. Currently, I’m wide awake on a nicely-cushioned silk bed. My eyes trail along the fine wooden ceiling as I attempt to force my body into a relaxing position. It simply cannot be done. So instead of sleeping peacefully, I will log the events which have occurred today. Or perhaps I should say the events which occurred yesterday. I awoke in the late afternoon in the catacombs with this journal on my lap and a spilt ink vial next to me. With a slight sigh, I examined my stained hand, smelt it grimacing at the scent of the viscous fluid. A heavy yawn escaped me as I packed my belongings and treaded toward the surface of the city. Voices seemed to emanate from the upper level of the catacombs and they put me into a state of shock at once. Uncertain of whether or not to follow the source of the voices, I finally came to the conclusion that it would be wisest to listen in to what the ominous articulations meant. Though not normally a subtle man, I managed to quietly tiptoe up the stone steps and perk my ears to catch snippets of the conversation. Apparently it was between two people: a man who wasn’t terribly old but still had some maturity about him and a young woman with a carefree voice which could easily be molded into a serious one upon command. In this case, her tone of dialect was the latter. The feminine voice demanded to know why the man was delving down into this wretched dungeon. I was quite astonished to hear how the man managed to initiate himself into a full-blown conversation without fully unveiling the reason for his presence in the catacombs. He even went as far as to flirt with the woman - a slightly welcomed approach from what I could hear. After the woman had finally been assured that the man was no cultist nor grave robber, she had dismissed him with an uneasy tone floating about her iterations. Panic enveloped me as I heard the man’s footsteps coming closer to the corridor which I was hidden behind. In the midst of this alarm, I managed to muster enough sanity to cross my arms and look toward the floor as though uninterested in the brief yet heated debate which had occurred just seconds ago. To my utter disappointment, the man pivoted in my direction and stared at me for a few seconds as if mutely profiling me. My first instinct was to sprint away from this man before he had the chance to apprehend me, but my legs felt like ooze and wouldn’t budge. In a crisp mellow voice, the man stated in a certain tone, “Denevron.” At this point I couldn’t help but flash my eyes at the man and finally capture a cursory glimpse of his identity. Could he be someone I knew from before my imprisonment? No, of course not. He was too well-kempt to be one of my friends. The midnight black hair cropped on this man’s hair was pulled into a ponytail which allowed me to take notes of his distinct facial features. I won’t lie - the man was quite dashing compared to what I had expected from one who traverses the catacombs. His attire made the him look quite devious as though he wanted to either rob or kill me - the feminine voice was right to ask him his intentions. He was kind of like one of those villains you read in a guards-and-robbers kind of bedtime story. You know, the one where they live happily ever after? Yeah, that’s the one. Despite my childish analysis of the man, what caught my interest the most were the two blades sheathed by his waist. Whatever this man told me to do, I would be forced to comply or face the fury of his weaponry. It took me several seconds before I could regain enough mental footing to respond, “Yeah. How do you know my name?” An omniscient grin melted onto the man’s face like butter on warm bread, “The Church knows all. Follow me.” We both ascended the sets of stairwells within the catacombs as a duo. During the entire time, I couldn’t help but wonder what this man wanted with me. I’m a nobody - a convict. The only things which I could bring to the table were very little street smarts and the names of a dozen criminals locked in the Stockades. These were all attributes which I’m certain the man possessed. So what made me so fucking important? Seconds seemed like minutes. Minutes seemed like hours until we had finally reached the library portion of the cathedral. Despite the array of shadowy men and woman perusing the bookshelves, the clandestine man felt as though it was the ideal spot for a discussion. He beckoned me over to a table cluttered with a myriad of tomes and scrolls where we both took seats. His eyes seemed to enter my soul and search my very body for the goodness which was deep within. In a rather plain voice for his physique and attire, the man spoke boldly, “My name is Kendrick Lawson.” So the portentous figure had a name after all - he was a mortal like me. Several minutes had elapsed before Kendrick and I had finally finished our conversation. Though I cannot remember the dialogue verbatim, he told me that he was willing to grant me a clean slate under his own organization: the Dark Lantern Society. Of course I will overwhelmed with excitement to be granted such an opportunity to rebuild myself. Lawson told me that this society was responsible for doing the underground work of the clergy. Perhaps this organization could be my key to regaining favor with the Light? Only time will tell. Something bothered me in particular about the words which Mr. Lawson and I had exchanged. He asked about my relation to Jethamus Holywrought: the bastardized kingpin of underground commerce in Stormwind. This was only a common misconception due to the fact that we both share similar surnames, but I assured Kendrick that the last name “Holywrought” is popular among the families which originated from northern Lordaeron. The man still seems to have his suspicions about me by which I can understand. My surname has been a curse to me ever since my family moved to Stormwind. If I was related to Jethamus, I’m not sure what I would do. Fortunately, I’m not and will never be a member of that cursed bloodline. The secrecy of this organization explained the series of people around me back at the library. This was an initiation, not your general run-of-the-mill congregation of bookworms! Before he dismissed me, Kendrick handed me a ghastly white gem. Apparently, this was the communication device by which I could speak through telepathically. At this point I had finally realized that I actually was important to someone. I was an asset. The rest of my afternoon was spent in the Cathedral Square as I idly reclined against a lamp post in search of something to do. This “Dark Lantern Society” had brought me into their fold quite swiftly, yet I still wasn’t so certain as to what their mission statement was. Sure, working for the clergy is a field of work, but I would’ve preferred to hear the specifics of the job. A grouping of three or four of the people who I had seen in the library before were discussing something outside of the cathedral. Since I was ten or twenty feet away from the gathering, I could only gather snippets of the conversation. They were discussing some sort of bad mistake which Kendrick was going to make in addition to how the clergy pours their funds into the Society. All of this was trivial prattling to me. For the Light’s sake, half of the terms which they utilized in their speech were unknown to my psyche! I suppose this is what happens after being locked up in the Stockades for a year - your mental well-being begins to deteriorate over time. Breaking my confusion was a jovially friendly voice which squeaked my name, “Denevron!” In a burst of surprise, I jumped to the source of the familiar noise. It was the same feminine voice which was speaking to Kendrick several hours ago. To be fair, I wasn’t as surprised by this woman’s appearance as I was with Kendrick’s because her anatomy perfectly matched the humming utterance which drifted from it. “Quizzical” would be the best adjective to describe the tone by which I responded, “You were talking with Kendrick, yeah?” She nodded with a twinkle of innocence in her eyes. To my utter bedazzlement, the woman offered me a place to sleep straight off the bat. Tears of happiness seemed to roll down my cheeks once I finally accepted after my paranoia had been relieved. This was a good woman. Her name? Penna - an alias which was as beautiful as her face. Aromas of foreign herbs filled my nostrils and seemed to dance within them, intertwining into the scent of nirvana. The florist store by which Penna claimed residence in even managed to ward off my own stench of booze and soot. Her home was located on the second floor of the storefront and inside it were two bedrooms, a common room, and a cozy bathroom with plenty of incense. Nothing had pleased me more than finally bathing myself and having Penna cut my hair. I could see clearly without parting those damned locks from my eyes! What’s more is the benevolent Light-follower even gave me a comfortable dress-shirt to keep! This was the pinnacle of goodness. Penna was my greatest friend in this city of hate. Until the dawn rises, journal. June 18 | 32 A.D.P. | 12:06 A.M. Today was slightly uneventful, yet it still retained a sort of humble grace about it. Both Penna and I enjoyed a fulfilling breakfast in her cozy apartment. Though it was no feast, the coffee which Ms. Trigune (this was her last name, as I had learned during the meal we shared together) prepared was quite satisfying and sobered me up from last night which was filled with an unfortunate amount of binge drinking. Throughout the meal, I couldn’t help but focus my gaze onto a neatly-tied package which was resting along the middle of the circular dining table like a decorative centerpiece of sorts. It took Penna several minutes before she discerned what I was staring at. “Oh!”, she peeped up, “That’s for you. It arrived in the mail when you were asleep.” My eyebrows perked curiously. It had been awhile since I had received mail. When I did, it was in the Stockades and even then they were just foreclosure warnings for my apartment in the Cathedral District. In the end, my nosy nature got the best of me and I tore away the thin brown paper, peering at the contents. All I saw was a blank slate of stone with a note attached in an extravagant font. “I thought this might have more meaning to you than it would to the gentleman who wanted to buy it from me for less than five silver. Hopefully it will give you something to hold onto when things seem at their worst. Light bless and keep you. -Syrenity” For a moment I was clueless as to who this “Syrenity” was. At last, I finally remembered the events which had occurred the previous night. Syrenity was a member of the Society who had noticed me in the Cathedral District and had approached me with a sort of interested twinkle about her eyes. Without any delay, the woman welcomed me to the Society and I was comfortable enough to tell her that I yearned for a cleans slate in life. To be honest, I probably told Syrenity this because I wasn’t exactly sober when our conversation took place. I suppose that Syrenity took my “clean slate” visualization into a literal form by sending me this little trinket. Currently, the slate rests on my nightstand back at the apartment as a symbol of the goal I am working toward. The rest of the day was spent in the Blue Recluse as I chugged down a few beverages which were supposed to keep me awake after the long night of insufferable consciousness. One frothing mug of ale came after the next; however, my eyes peered around the tavern as I realized that the only people who frequented the Recluse at this hour were dwarves and the occasional slumbag human. To my utter disappointment, I devolved into one of these slumbags as soon as I had a few mugs too many and drifted off into a long, uninterrupted slumber. It took me awhile before I managed to return to reality. By the time I had woken up, the tavern was much more occupied than it had been earlier. This time with plenty of wizards, gnomes, and other peculiar beings which you could only see in the Mage District. Not many seconds had transpired before I had remembered something of great importance: the Society was running the Lion’s Pride Tavern of Goldshire tonight and they were expecting my presence. With a heavy jolt to my feet, I had burst from the tavern in a flurry of urgency. This was my first professional assignment which I had been tasked with and if I were to be tardy, Lawson would surely think less of me. An insurmountably massive amount of sweat was plastered onto my face once I had taken my first steps into the Lion’s Pride. I wouldn’t doubt that there were dozens of pestering eyes which had looked my way upon my presence, but I don’t blame them either. My appearance resembled that of an absolutely drunken wreck. Nothing of interest occurred in the tavern that night, but hopefully this will change as I garner more trust within the Society. P.S.: Lawson looks spiffy in a suit. Much better than he did in the abominably devious outfit which he wore when we first met. June 19 | 32 A.D.P. | Dawn? Probably Dawn. There are plenty of features in Azeroth which consistently frighten me and keep me awake at night. One of said features is the fact that while you may feel safe falling asleep in the Pig and Whistle, you’ll probably wake up locked into your friend’s closet. Believe it or not, this is my current predicament. To be fair, let me start from the beginning. Up until the end of breakfast, I was processed through the routine drill: I woke up in the guest bedroom, took a warm bath, and started to munch on some fruit which Penna had been so kind as to prepare for the table. The chatter which we shared was mostly bland due to the fact that we only conversed about light topics such as the weather. To my distaste, the discussion soon delved into the crime of Stormwind. Penna’s face had dissolved from a cheerfully affectionate attitude to a more macabre one. Not two minutes into discussing Jethamus Holywrought, it came out of her like an involuntary spasm, “I work for the Lionhearts.” My eyes widened at this foul claim. At first, I couldn’t believe that a pure woman like Penna would work for a pig like Jeth. It was only proof that appearances are deceiving - from this point onward, I must thoroughly know a person before befriending him or her. But how could Penna a Lionheart? How could she plunder from innocent people alongside Jeth and do his bidding? The pleasant meal had flipped upside down and had been converted into a heated interrogation in a matter of seconds. In particular, I remember how my voice quivering as I inquired, “H-how could you work for him? Someone like you…” She seemed quite phased by my surprised attitude and responded in a saddened tone, “Father told me that Jethamus Holywrought would offer me work for when I first moved to this city. I had no idea about what he really did. How he’s really a puppeteer behind every other crime which is committed in Stormwind.” Somehow I had managed to return to a state of rationality as I composed my response, “Why are you keeping me in your home? And more importantly, why are you telling me that you’re a Lionheart drone?” A light sigh parted from Penna’s lips, then followed by an explanation, “Because Jethamus wants you dead. I don’t know why, he just does. I was assigned to kill you, but I have a conscience. You just seem so good inside and the assignments which Jeth gives me aren’t my forte. Killing? Robbery? None of this pieces together, Denevron. So instead of killing you, I brought you to my abode and it took plenty of convincing, but last night I reported that you were dead.” Butterflies seemed to invade my stomach as it churned violently. What was happening? More importantly, what was I going to do about it? Feeling the urge to drink a gallon of ale, I leapt to my feet and marched to the door of the apartment. All I saw was the door swing wide open before a blunt object had slammed against the back of my skull. Wooziness enveloped the entirety of my body as I fell down the stairwell and landed spread-eagle on the first level of the building. The words “I’m sorry” rang throughout my ears as my psyche meandered into a deep slumber. Perhaps it was the piercing cry of a bird or maybe it was my own mind which forced me awake, but by the time I had regained my consciousness, the afternoon had swiftly approached. I had rubbed the arc of my nose with my index finger and thumb as I sat on the side of the bed which I had found myself on. It took my a good minute or even two for me to finally come to the conclusion that I was in the guest bedroom which Penna had let me stay in. What a horrifying change of events - I was in dire need of a rescue from my refuge. Finally feeling stable enough to walk properly, I stood upward and trotted toward the door in an effort to flee this prison as fast as possible. Abhorrence is the proper term to describe how I felt as I had turned the brass knob only to realize that the portal to freedom wouldn’t budge at all. This emotion only grew worse by the time I gazed downwards at the knob to take note that my emerald signet had disappeared from my hand! Oh, why has the Light punished me so? My family heirloom was now in the hands of one of Jeth’s cronies and there was nothing I could do about it! I concernedly examined the room, scrutinizing anything which could be utilized as a method of escape. As my eyes flickered along the premises, they finally stopped at the most obvious route to the outside world: the enormous window which was constructed across from the door. Was I really that desperate? Desperate enough to jump from a second story window and land onto slightly-cushioned concrete? I was. While clenching my fists, tightening my eyes, and inclining my head, I dashed toward the window and leapt against the glass, shattering it into hundreds of intricate pieces. My fall was ungraceful to say the least - glass had scathed several of my appendages and there was a small pool of blood from where I had landed. Though still quite dizzy from the fall, I regained my footing and used some nearby foliage to support me as I stood upward and searched for anyone who might have seen my breakout. Aside from a few stallions which were stabled by the surrounding taverns, no one had been witness to my vandalism. I sped from the district with a slight limp to my step due to the fact that my left leg was quite mangled. Surprisingly, it didn’t take me long before I had reached the Pig and Whistle and had taken a seat among the scoundrels who were already there. Seeing as how the P&W always has a questionable crowd, little to no suspicion perked up when I made my presence in the facility. It didn’t take too long before I nodded off into another drunken sleep. Damn that Reese Langston! He should know better than to sell me that many mugs of booze! Now I’m back in Penn’s closet. Why can’t I just bash the door open? Because she placed some sort of holy seal so that it couldn’t be opened by force. How did she find me? That’s what I’m wondering. What I want to know the most is how she knew I was in the P&W and what the wench wants to do with me. Even now I can only write in this journal because of the dim light which peeks from under the closet door. Until I am freed from Penna’s grasp, journal. June 19 | 32 A.D.P. | 8:54 P.M. Out of all of the days in my life, this would definitely be a top competitor for one I would not enjoy reliving. I suppose that it had officially begun when Penna opened the door to my confined living quarters. The radiance of day had flooded into the closet and for a second I could of sworn that the sun itself was relieving me from my suffering. Alas, it was merely my warden who whispered in a dangerously austere tone, “We have to get you out of here.” Since I was wincing my eyes from the light surrounding me, it took my awhile before my distorted vision could properly align itself enough for me to clutch onto Penna’s hand and take a step into the guest bedroom. The wicked cloud of embarrassment loomed over me as I caught a glimpse of the obliterated window - something which my hostess wasn’t too complacent about. Ignoring the fault with her apartment, Penna dragged me to the living space and furiously pointed at a mace which was leaning against her cupboard. My eyes narrowed at the gruesome thing which lay there for it seemed to create an aura of treachery in this once-pleasant home. It was crafted with lethargy, perhaps a weapon commonly issued to soldiers. Regardless, it was clear that this mace could be lethal if utilized correctly. Penna’s voice drifted throughout the room, “Jeth saw you in the P&W, Den. He didn’t kill you then and there because of the massive amount of people congregated in the joint. What he did was meet up with me last night soon before I found. Y’know what happened?” I shook my head, mouth gaped wide open. No moment was spared before Penna continued, “He told me that he knew I failed his orders and kept you safe. In fact, Jeth gave me this mace. I don’t think you want to know what he said, but it was gruesome. Something which is gonna haunt me for awhile, Den. We…we just need to get you out of here.” This was it. I needed to take a stand before my entire life crumbled from the iron fist of Jeth. “Tell me what he said. Tell me!” Tears rolled down Penna’s cheek as she pointed at the mace, “He said that you’ll want to kill yourself with that before he gets his hands on you. We can’t let either of those horrors happen, Den! We just can’t.” It took me awhile before I could recollect myself. Now the mace was more than a weapon of average quality. Instead, it had evolved into a symbol of the horrors which resided in Stormwind: the nadir of criminality. My eyes had been set upon the mace since the beginning of the conversation and they had kept a watchful glare at it until the end of Penna’s explanation. Once Penna was finished, I approached the weapon with a bold stride and caressed it with my rugged palms. This would be my weapon against the scum of this city. It would be a metaphor for the ironic turn of events which were forthcoming. Before I die, I will kill Jeth with his own weapon. With the Nadir. “Where to?” The Stockades were a difficult place to live in. I suffered more brutality in the two years spent there than an innocent man spends in a lifetime. Because of the above, the Nadir was much easier to carry along with me than I had originally expected. Penna was quite shocked at my unforeseen strength as well; however, perhaps it wasn’t my strength at all - perhaps it was a blessing from the Light. Either way, Penna secured me into one of the larger vaulted rooms of the catacombs beneath the cathedral for safekeeping. How long was I supposed to be down here? She probably didn’t even know. The woman apparently thought I was safe enough down here due to the fact that she had hastily ascended the stairwell shortly after pushing me into an empty casket. I was doubtful at Penna’s intentions for the first hour of being inside this grim container, but this doubt disintegrated when heavy footsteps were heard resounding throughout my chamber. Whether it was the breeze or the unparalleled testosterone which coursed through my veins, I felt a slight tingle shiver down my spine. Now that I look back at that very moment, I think to myself that I was actually anxious to obtain my retribution against the Lionhearts. Caskets could be heard creaking open one by one and it had become apparent to me that due to the increasing magnitude of the volume, the Lionheart was inching toward me. By the time the casket next to me had been peered into, my hand clenched the mace like a mother does her newborn. I was ready for retaliation. Without further ado, I leapt from the casket and lunged at the shadow beside me in a flurry of anger. Before the figure could retaliate, I launched several furious uppercuts toward my enemy’s abdominal muscles, forcing the human to the ground. One, two, three blows were dealt to his Lionheart before I straightened my legs and panted heavily, finally having enough time to catch a fleeting glimpse of my work. The predator, or perhaps it would be appropriate to call him the prey, was a definite male whose eyes glimmered in pure fear at the sight of me. Blood trickled down his forehead as he begged for mercy. Feeling the urge to do so, I knelt over and whispered a mere statement in my raspy yet clear voice, “Tell Jeth to fuck off or perish under my hand.” With that, I used the rest of my energy to escape from the catacombs. There would definitely be more of those thugs wandering around the Cathedral District and I couldn’t risk another encounter. Only one location was in my mind where I could take solace: Penna’s apartment. Hope seemed to churn inside my stomach as I noted that the door to Penna’s abode was already open. Unfortunately, this hope ceased directly after I took my first step into the place. Tables were cast to the side, furniture was wrecked, and in a nutshell, the place had become a dilapidated wreck - a little parting gift from Jeth. I took a seat at one of the few chairs remaining and panted heavily in order to regain my breath from the preemptive strike. A myriad of plans entered my mind as I had rustled my hair in anguish. Is Penna safe? Where am I to go? Why am I wanted dead? These inquiries were soon disrupted once I had noticed a crumpled piece of parchment resting on the wooden flooring. Though most likely a warning or bad news, I mustered enough courage to pick the parchment up and peruse it over. “Den, I’m safe enough. It’ll be wise of you to leave the city as soon as possible. For the love of the Light, don’t meander down to Old Town! -PHT” Could this be a trap? It could be, but this handwriting was all too familiar to me. While the Lionhearts could have forced Penna to write this letter, I had to take my chances. Sitting upon this decrepit chair, I finally came to the conclusion of where I needed to go: it was necessary for me to traverse Elwynn and go to Redridge Mountains. This is where my mother lives and where I could finally be under a roof I recognize. I’ll be purchasing a few essentials with the gold I can salvage from this ruined home. Penna will understand. Until I am finally safe, journal. June 21 | 32 A.D.P. | 4:43 P.M. There’s no place like home. Excuse the lack of journal entries for the previous couple of days due to the fact that I was on my way to Lakeshire of the Redridge Mountains. In my haste, there was no spare time to write in this journal because, well, I feared that Jeth’s goons might have been a mile or two behind me. Let me encapsulate what had occurred during the time gap between the last entry and this one. On my first day on the road, I made a great deal of coverage through Elwynn Forest. Not too many people walked by me while on the path and the ones who did paid no attention to my affairs - quite a relieving change. When the sun had reached its peak, I finally decided to set up camp by one of the numerous abandoned mines riddled throughout the kingdom of Wrynn. As I nodded myself to sleep, I couldn’t help but let paranoia overwhelm me. What if my assassins were after me? Could I even defend myself if this is the case? Regardless, I managed to gain some sleep before the break of dawn. For breakfast I had rummaged through my satchel and was quite fortunate to discover a can of preserved beans which were taken from Penna’s apartment earlier on. As my eyes gazed longingly at the container, I contemplated Penna’s state without me. The primary thought which had been my greatest concern was whether or not my guardian was safe after all. It took me a great deal of time for the taste of burnt beans to dissipate from my mouth. I suppose that while flustered about Penna, I had overcooked my unsavory meal in the process. Of course I attempted to convince myself that I was merely inattentive due to the fact that I was chartering out the fastest route to Redridge, but there was no escaping the inevitable. Penna actually meant something to me despite her wicked employer. Or perhaps I should call Jethamus her ex-employer due to the state by which I saw Penna’s abode in. A caravan of gnomes and dwarves passed by me along the dusty trail to my destination. Not too much bartering nor discussion was exchanged, but we still greeted each other with genial smiles. My enthusiasm for this trek waned swiftly after the salutations due to the fact that nothing else of interest unraveled that day. This was one of the unluckier days for me because almost precisely when the border of Elwynn was in site, rain poured from the heavens as if the angels of Redridge were weeping at my presence. To my utter disappointment, I was forced to utilize the canopy of a weeping willow tree as my shelter before I called it an early night. What’s worse is that I couldn’t have started a fire of any kind because the tinder around me was soaked and my supply of steel wool had been exhausted. So in the end, I had no choice but to fall asleep as a cold, wet, and emaciated man. An orchestra of birds woke me from my uneasy slumber. Once I had packed my things, I continued to trail the path to home. I must have been quite eager to return to the town of my youth because it took very little time before I finally stumbled upon the quaint town of Lakeshire. To anyone else, this village was a mere stopping point where peasants and nobodies resided. To me, this place was home. Red spots had dotted the horizon as I stood before the town while beaming at it - these were the trademark sign of the crimson roofs which Lakeshire was famous for. No moment was spared before I proudly began my stride to home. Due to the fact that I was too tired to navigate through the mountain range which my mother’s cottage was nestled within, I had made the decision to spend one night in the local tavern instead. As I first set foot in this facility, it had become apparent to me that a myriad of things can change a structure such as this one during the interval of two years. The furniture was completely rearranged, there was a new tavern keep behind the counter which I had frequented oh-so-many times, and the most obvious change of all was that there were much less customers within the premises. With a slight shrug, I managed to accept these changes as I approached the counter and flashed my bloodshot eyes at the barkeep. My voice was much raspier and colder than it usually was, “One room, please. Also a mug of stout would be fine.” Nothing but a subtle nod and a slight grunt of submission was heard from the barkeep as he rustled over to the shelves, lazily poured me my beverage in a dirty mug, and then tossed brass key toward me before muttering, “Three gold, ten silver.” It was a good thing that I had found a total of twenty gold in Penna’s apartment, because otherwise I would have been utterly homeless for this particular night. With a slight flourish of the hand, I dropped four coins which shimmered by the candlelight, took my belongings, and ascended the creaky stairwell. Until the dawn rises, journal. June 23 | 32 A.D.P. | 8:28 A.M. This week was a devastatingly difficult one to put it simple terms. I suppose one can say that it all started when I had made the decision to finally traverse the rugged mountain ranges of Redridge in order to reach the home of my adolescence. In particular, I remembered that I had prayed during the entire excursion that I wouldn’t cross the path of an orc of some kind. Soon enough I realized that these iterations to the Light were in vain - halfway through my journey, I spotted a brownish humanoid who was crudely trotting around one of the massive boulders which I was all too familiar with. My attempts to deftly shuffle away from the animalistic being were foiled. His maroon eyes glared at me for a good thirty seconds before he let loose a bellowing war cry and sprinted toward me, spittle dripping from his mouth while his axe waved menacingly in the mountain air. A moment of shock had consumed the entirety of my psyche before I recouped and drew the Nadir from her sheath which I had conveniently sewn to my belt on the way to Lakeshire. As the axe of my enemy came closer into my perspective, I could see the blood which coated the gruesome death dealer. My legs were spread outward while I had readjusted my footing toward the orc in order to force myself into a decisive defensive stance. With a clash of iron and steel, the orc was pushed back shortly after he had attempted to launch a sideward blow at my ribs. I countered this novice strike with a slanting blow which, if successful, would dislocate his shoulder and perhaps render him as a useless combatant. I was deceived by what I had thought was a prudent choice for combat. My enemy had sidestepped my blow in a fit of fear, thus launching my mace several inches deep into the damp soil beneath me. Only a few precious seconds were granted to me as I had tried to pull the Nadir from her premature tomb before once again I heard the ghastly war cry from behind me. There was no hope for me. All I could do was close my eyes and hope that my death would be swift and painless. But no, the Light had other plans. A shriek of intimidation soon resounded throughout the mountaintops, luring me to open my eyes once more. What I saw was something beautiful: an effervescent shield of hope surrounded me and had made me invulnerable to the orc’s now-trivial blows. As I stood upon the earth by which the Nadir was trapped within, I pivoted around with the intentions of looking my enemy in the eye. Though my hopes of jeering at the animal were dashed, it was a bittersweet joy to watch him flee, arms flailing in the air rather than an axe. By the time the orc was out of my sight, the holy shield had dissolved and entered the realm of nothingness. This was a precursor to my destiny. It was what Kendrick had seen in me all along. There was something within me after all - there was the Light. The home by which I spent the entirety of my childhood in was humble to say the least. Resting near the base of a rather steep hill, this abode was the epitome of camaraderie and warmth which had made my younger years so special. Due to the fact that I didn’t want to scare my mother by simply meandering into the place, I decided to knock one, two, three times. The sounds of scampering feet could be heard within the structure as the door opened. I was quite surprised that I wasn’t greeted by the face of my mother. Instead, there was a very plain woman in her thirties who seemed to infiltrate my soul with her forceful eyes. She sneered as she spoke, “What do you want?” To be quite fair, I didn’t know how to respond to this inquiry. A stranger (a rude one at that) was grimacing at the very sight of me at my own doorstep. I couldn’t help but let out a light scoff before I responded, “My name is Denevron Rhodes and I would like to speak with my mother, Kitrina.” The woman’s eyes widened greatly. At once, she profusely apologized at her rudeness as she scurried aside to let me in. In a slightly embarrassed voice, she spoke, “Second door to the-” “Left.” Complacence overwhelmed me as had I interrupted the woman’s directions. It was a riveting experience to give her a taste of her own wicked medicine. Little did I know that the prior statement would be an unintended pun to what I would soon realize. As I peered into my mother’s room, what I saw was a disaster. The woman who I had loved so much and still love was a bedridden husk of the one I had remembered two years ago. Her hair? There was little to none. In fact, only a few strands of white hair could be seen attached to her scalp. Wrinkles riddled her entire countenance - quite a disturbing paradox from her once-perfected skin. Uncertain of whether or not I should grasp the woman’s attention, I finally came to the conclusion that I was her son and it was my duty to greet my mother. My voice seemed to croak as I offered my salutation, “Mother?” A low yet audible cracking noise could be heard resounding throughout the bedroom as Kitrina turned her head to look up at me from her musty bed. At once, her exhausted eyes widened in excitement and her general mood seemed to alter in a beneficial way at the sight of me. Though sounding very sickly, my mother’s relaxing hum still retained a hint of how I had remembered it, “Oh, Denevron! After all these years. Where were you?” I knew it was necessary for me to lie in order not to break my mother’s heart, “I was doing busywork for the army. We needed to deliver some provisions to the Plaguelands and it had taken more time than I had expected due to a rather menacing storm.” Guilt had been the one thing on my mind as I watched my mother offered a slow yet acknowledging nod, “Oh, I’m, so sorry! Are you okay? Storms can be quite brutal, Denevron.” Shaking my head, I responded promptly, “Don’t worry about my health. More importantly, how are you? It seems as though these two years haven’t treated you too well.” A light yet troubled chuckle escaped from Kitrina as she spoke, “Last year I was diagnosed with some sort of disease. Must’ve contracted it from an infested orc or something because it’s quite vicious, let me tell you. Anyway, I’ve hired Martha Benedict over there to look after me since your sister has her own family to care for. You know Martha, don‘t you? She has a cottage in Lakeshire.” My eyes flickered to the archway which led into the hallway in order to catch a better glimpse of Martha. Ah, how could I have not recognized that beak of a nose? Martha Benedict - I remember when we were children, I used to frolic around her while antagonizing her bizarre facial deformities. “Yes.” I lowered my tone to a low drone so that Benedict couldn‘t hear me, “I know Martha. But of all of the women in Lakeshire who work as nurses, why that wench? She’s got the sensitivity of stale bread.” Though shocked by my rude inquiry, my mother answered omnisciently, “She doesn’t cost much. We aren’t rich, Denevron. Never were, never will be.” The nod which I acknowledged her statement with was quite slow but understanding, “So what’s the cure for this disease you’ve got? Plenty of rest, I reckon.” Kitrina’s eyes slanted at this provocation . A few pitiful creases began to form along her forehead as she muttered, “There is no cure. I’m dying. The town priest told me that I have a year at most left in me. Until then I’ll be waiting in this here bed.” My heart sank in mental agony, “Oh. Don’t worry. I’ll visit you often. I’m-I’m sorry that it’s been so long.” With that, Kitrina and I conversed about a series of depthless topics for several hours until our eyes grew weary. In this interval of time, I knew that at least there was one person in Azeroth who still loved me. For as long as I could remember, my bedroom was a simple place. It was actually quite similar to my cell in the Stockades but without the lavatory. There were a few toys from my childhood neatly arranged on a few beaten shelves such as little army men, bandit action figures carved from blocks of wood, and miniature swords which I vividly remember my father injuring his feet time and again upon. Ever since I left Redridge for Stormwind to help rebuild the city, my room was left the same. Everything was in place as though I hadn’t even relocated in the first place. A good while of soaking up old memories had passed before I finally collapsed upon my worn bed. At long last, I was at home. Category:Archived Stories Category:Archived